


like a nation's flag, my breeze was too weak

by honeydowo



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Introspection, Other, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29819187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeydowo/pseuds/honeydowo
Summary: Because there's a truth to Tommy, a sliver of something ancient they all fail to consider – brothers and kings and tyrants, men of greatness and those who have already chosen to fall – he never wanted to be a hero.He is just Tommy.And so he is fierce, and so he is kind, and so he is powerful.And so he scares them.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	like a nation's flag, my breeze was too weak

**Author's Note:**

> this is all about tommy's death, so there's mentions of blood & violence! not very graphic, but still there!! 
> 
> title taken from "this is a flag. there is no wind."

_(One day, I'll be just like you! Tommy says, and the sun is bright in his eyes – something hopeful and warm, like the smell of fresh strawberries. Wilbur laughs, says sure, and goes on to die.)_

Tommy's death is abrupt and unfair.

There's nothing else to it, because how can someone whose jagged edges have always been defined by what others chipped away ever have a death short of betrayal, short of gruesome? 

_(Do it,_ Wilbur says, _do it,_ and he spreads his arms open wide and invites the blade into his heart, into the glitter of blood production. Wilbur dies with a smile on his lips and a finished symphony stuck in his throat – the perfect ending.

 _Stop it_ , Tommy says, _stop it_ , and he raises his arms to protect his face, his skin, what remains of his dignity – a scream for help lodged in his throat chokes the last bit of his soul out of the crumpled body, and all he can think is; _how dreadfully impersonal._ ) 

In lock and key, Tommy dies – it's the sort of irony Wilbur would appreciate, the mocking bird perishing in the golden cage, like one of the heroes, like one of the tragedies.

He fancies Techno would look upon his demise as Wilbur's, would look up to his crimson halo and crumpled body, would say _"A poet's death"_ , and let the history books never forget what ash and soot taste like.

But, and this Tommy knows, there's nothing poetic about his death, no paragraph to be filled with lament – like squishing a bug, this insignificance swallows his bloodied fingertips whole.

(The thought stings, so Tommy stops thinking.) 

Because there's a truth to Tommy, a sliver of something ancient they all fail to consider – brothers and kings and tyrants, men of greatness and those who have already chosen to fall – he never wanted to be a hero. He's not Theseus, not Icarus, not a story told with softened features and a pitiful lilt to shaking words; he's the scream before battle, the absence of a warning sign. 

His death holds no poetry, just as his life held no rhyme – Tommy is, was, never like them, never a marionette, not even when his arms were held by string; there's a laugh trapped behind his bloody teeth and a crown of gold on his head held high.

They see in him a child playing hero, not a soldier, not a brother, not a friend; they watch his fingers dance on their words and turn them to gold, and they are scared.

Because this is a trickster, this is someone not without corruption, but someone with the power to overcome all.

_(They do not know a child playing soldier remains a child, still. They do not know he's just what he was told to be.)_

Tommy is not Theseus, not a man disgraced and pushed, he's not Icarus, not a boy held together by arrogance and wax.

He is just Tommy. 

And so he is fierce, and so he is kind, and so he is powerful.

And so he scares them.

Because this is Tommy, a brother; 

Strong beating heart and a bright blue sky, shouting with vigor and _you're like a brother to me_ , laughing, screaming, _god you're so clingy_ , and proving the whole world wrong.

This is Tommy, scared; 

Facing a sign and facing a button and facing a friend – facing a nation and facing death, seeing death and feeling death from glowing eyes or gunpowder stained hands, from grief blooming like flowers on fresh soil. Clouds, breaths of mist, gunpowder, gunpowder, blue stained ground, _it is never my time to die._

This is Tommy, revolutionary; 

A furious gaze, _you fucked up,_ white knuckles on a gifted bow and eyes on the tricolour of a newly woven flag, hope like an arrow tipped just above his heart – death a stranger with bloodied hands and the kindest smile, the path back to life still untouched. 

This is Tommy, betrayed; 

Explosions and withers and blood, screaming bloody words into echoing skies, stepping into a boat and reaching new shores with a friend who's a stranger, refusing to die, wanting to die, having his heart beat on.

This is Tommy, broken; 

(no, not now not ever, because every shard of glass makes something chipped whole again, every edge reflects light. Not broken, not irredeemable, not scared.) 

This is Tommy, free; 

Racing heart and racing thoughts, splitting smiles and 4k truths – soaring through the sky with lungs full of air, no more gunpowder, no more blood, and the music rings true in his ears.

This is Tommy, executed; 

Alone in Dream's cell and pleading, pleading, with a broken mouth and aching soul, pleading with a crown of blood and a brother's arms reaching from beyond the veil.

_(This is Tommy, dead at last;_

_No choice in the end, but to fall in his brother's arms – like a prayer's been answered, a wish granted, like plucking the guitar strings of his aching soul._

_This is Tommy, dead; completed and loved.)_

This is Tommy, who's bleed and died for the dreams of others, this is Tommy who has taken death's warm hand and came back. This is Tommy, who would do anything for his friends. This is Tommy, who watches his brother die a poet's death, bleeding out in the arms of his father; rasping in one last breath as the dust settles. Wilbur knew the script, the words, the dance – when he deemed his story finished, he forced it to end. 

This is Tommy, who watches the dictator spit at his enemies feet, drunk and cold to the touch, watches Schlatt take the joy of killing him away from those who he has tormented – an unfitting death, for a ruler so hated, to die without a single wound, yet still accomplished.

This is Tommy, who never got to say goodbye, who never saw his hotel flourish, whose beating heart so adamantly keeps pumping blood, even when he's already resigned.

This is Tommy, who is dead ~~(free.)~~

(No one mourns.)

**Author's Note:**

> any bad bitches sad about c!tommy's death?  
> *breaks down* 
> 
> inspired by [this](https://twitter.com/dr3amofagame/status/1366746339653144581?s=19)
> 
> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/RANB00TAN)
> 
> leave kudos and comments to revive c!tommy and cure my crippling sadness


End file.
